


paltry is the passion

by zipegs



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #BottomHanniBonanza, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Marks, Post-Coital, Season/Series 02, Top Will Graham, almost no actual sex, big season 2b bitter/horny energy, references to/mentions of breathplay and asphyxiation, wasn't sure how to rate this so we're saying high end of mature/low end of explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26646607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipegs/pseuds/zipegs
Summary: “Does that appeal to you?” Hannibal asks with faux innocence. “Knowing that others might see your marks?”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 93
Collections: Bottom Hanni  Bonanza





	paltry is the passion

To Hannibal’s delight, intimacy makes Will neither gentle, nor kind.

He had expected as much; Will has never seemed a man particularly disposed toward clemency, and his anger is no fast-burning flame. The moment he had emerged from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane and lowered himself once more into Hannibal’s office chair—like a king reclaiming his throne—Hannibal had felt the seeds of possibility sprout between them, and he had known the fruit they’d bear would be neither tender nor sweet.

That’s not to say there exists no fondness or affection among their more bitter inclinations—Hannibal feels it seep from his very pores when Will is near, and knows it is returned in kind. He sees it now, smoldering behind the sharpness and calculation in Will’s captivating blue eyes as he watches Hannibal slide on his button-down. In contrast, Will has already finished most of his redressing, though his cuffs remain undone, as do a few of his shirt’s top buttons. With his neck exposed the way it is, Hannibal can see several amorphous red-purple marks darkening the skin of his chest—his last spoils before Will had tired of his ministrations and forced him onto his back, pinning him to the bed with his solid bulk.

The flash of memory sends heat coiling in his stomach, though age ensures it is not enough to noticeably stir his arousal. However, the limits of his libido are tested when he finishes buttoning his shirt and the collar lies tight around the red hand-shaped marks blossoming on his throat. He juts out his chin ever so slightly, and stretches his head from side to side to better feel the press of fabric against the bruises.

At the foot of the bed, Will’s lip curls upward in dark amusement.

“You’ll have to wear something with a higher collar—if you don’t want your patients to ask questions, that is.”

Hannibal feels amusement glitter in his eyes, and does not attempt to mask his subtle smile. He reaches for his trousers, laid neatly over the rectangular stool at the foot of the bed, and steps into them, tucking in his shirt with practiced hands. “Does that appeal to you?” he asks with faux innocence. “Knowing that others might see your marks?”

Will huffs a dry laugh. “I’m not interested in what others might think, _Doctor_.”

“A wolf does not concern itself with the opinions of sheep,” he agrees. He holds out a hand, and Will passes him his tie, brushing their fingers together in a calculated move. Hannibal cocks a brow, but does not comment; he flips his collar up and turns to face the mirror, measuring out the length of his tails. “Still, I find it hard to believe the prospect holds no allure. Tangible evidence of the fulfillment of your fantasies—at least in part. Tell me, did it feel like you’d hoped it would? To hold my life between your fingers?” He lifts his gaze to meet Will’s through the mirror, attention dark and focused. “Or was the reality lacking?”

“Did it feel like _you’d_ hoped it would?” Will shoots back. He strides closer, so that he stands just behind Hannibal, and watches over his shoulder, chin lifted in defiance. One eyebrow arches up—a challenge.

Delight burns in his stomach. Hannibal folds his collar down over his tie and says simply: “Yes.”

Will’s other eyebrow joins the first. A smug smile plays over his lips, like sunlight over water, and, as Hannibal turns to face him, he reaches up—tracing the blotches of red that curl out beyond the confines of Hannibal’s shirt to stain his upper neck.

Hannibal inhales. He focuses on the shock of sensation that radiates outward from Will’s touch, skittering like electricity down his throat and into his torso.

 _With my hands_ , he had said.

Not even Cain had granted Abel such intimacy.

He remembers Will’s fingers stretching him wide, rubbing over his prostate with relentless vigor. Will’s grip tightening around his throat, the redness of his face, and his slack-mouthed pleasure. 

_You want me to tell of the pain that is hidden in pleasure, the fang that’s concealed by the lip, that kiss that draws a blossom of blood._

He stares intently at the unreadable expression on Will’s face. “‘Paltry is the passion that never makes us shudder,’” he says, letting the quote hang unfinished on the air.

_True love partakes of terror._

Will’s expression remains guarded—Hannibal cannot be sure whether he has caught the reference, but he will not insult him by assuming he has not.

“Domineering, boundless, irrefragable,” Will says finally. His eyes are sharp—intense—as they lift to meet Hannibal’s own. His hand slides down to Hannibal’s tie; he adjusts it, and his other hand rises to aid in the task. Pulls it tighter around his throat—an echo of a threat, though there is no overt violence in the gesture itself. “‘A… _destructive_ passion.’”

“There is beauty to be found in destruction,” Hannibal replies mildly. He stands still beneath Will’s attention, hands held easily at his sides. “Nothing is ever entirely lost. Death itself is not an end, but rather a transformation—what appears to be lost in a blazing fire becomes heat and ash instead.”

“We have set our past selves aflame, and emerge from the embers unscathed,” Will drawls. He slides his right hand down the length of the tie and then wraps his fingers around it, tugging Hannibal forward.

He goes willingly, leaning down slightly so that their faces hang with scant inches between them—two magnets resisting their natural pull.

Will had hovered just so as he reached his climax and spilled inside him. He had broken the contact of their lips with a fractured sound and cried out, panting into Hannibal’s open mouth as though sharing his breath while Hannibal urged him deeper, swallowing each desperate moan like ambrosia.

“It felt… powerful,” Will murmurs, looking down at Hannibal’s lips. This close, he can observe the tawny stippling in Will’s irises, like shavings of gold pressed into topaz. Smears of ochre upon a palette of blue and green. “Instinctive.”

Hannibal wets his lips. “Did you think about continuing?” he asks, settling his hands lightly on Will’s hips. His belt is supple and firm beneath his fingertips. “Squeezing tighter and tighter, until consciousness bled from my body? Until you could feel my heartbeat stumble and fall, dormant beneath your—”

Will cuts him off with a kiss. He captures Hannibal’s mouth roughly, grip tightening on his tie as a stern owner might tug upon a leash. His other hand shoots up to fist in Hannibal’s hair and yanks hard. Hannibal’s mouth falls open in reaction to the sharp sting of sensation, and Will licks into it unflinchingly, shifting closer so that their bodies press together, torso to torso and groin to groin. He is stirring again with fledgling arousal, Hannibal notes, and pulls him in, urging Will to press against his pelvis. Will’s hips jerk forward; his hand pulls more demanding on Hannibal’s hair, and Hannibal gasps into the kiss, fingers digging into Will’s hips—a reciprocation of touch. 

But as rapidly as heat was ignited in them, it gentles. Deliberately, Will loosens his grasp on Hannibal’s mussed tresses. He lets his palm lightly cup the back of his skull instead, and his other hand relaxes its hold on his tie—an encouragement rather than a tether. The movement of his mouth grows docile, lips brushing tenderly over Hannibal’s own, and he matches the adjustment in kind.

He surrenders himself to the sensation—lets the tide of Will’s ardor drag him out to sea. It is a heady feeling, and an affection he returns.

When they part, Will releases him, hands sliding up to rest lightly upon Hannibal’s chest. His lips are pink and glistening in the low evening light. A Caravaggio come to life.

Hannibal drinks in the image, etching it upon the canvas of his mind. It will be but one among many, though no less valued for it—in his memory palace, there are entire halls dedicated to Will alone. Galleries that feature him laid out beneath Hannibal in the throes of passion. Aiming down at Clark Ingram with his finger hovering over the trigger of his gun. Every expression is worth capturing, every moment worth replicating. Even the mundane becomes exceptional under the potent influence of Will’s presence.

He rubs his thumbs over Will’s hip bones, mouth quirking into an amused smile. “I’d planned to prepare _locro_ with _quiquirimichi_ for dinner tonight,” he says, and draws his hands back before crossing once again to the stool at the foot of the bed in search of his waistcoat. “A hearty stew popular among the Andes mountain range, and a spicy sauce made of red peppers and paprika.”

Will makes a small, noncommittal noise, and Hannibal raises a brow as he does up his buttons, turning back to face him.

“Will you stay?”

He will. Hannibal is certain of it—Will rarely turns down his invitations, and when he does, it is, he thinks, generally born from a need to be contrary rather than any pressing obligation. He had chosen tonight’s dish with Will in mind, though that isn’t to say it is not to his tastes as well; it is a national dish in many South American countries for good reason. Thick and creamy, _locro_ is delightful with a glass of chilled Torrontés wine, which is light and rather high in acidity—a perfect complement to the bold, spicy flavors of the soup and accompanying sauce. A solid, piquant dish. Well-balanced and stimulating, as is Will himself.

A distant, curious part of him wonders what Will’s mouth might feel like wrapped around him afterward, with capsaicin lingering on his tongue and the inside of his cheeks.

“I can spare a few more hours,” Will says finally. He holds Hannibal’s gaze, a smirk blooming on his lips that does not entirely match the warmth in his eyes.

 _Two lovers,_ Hannibal thinks, as heat stirs in his belly, _interminably devouring each other._

He would have it no other way.

“Good.” He drags his attention away from Will and shrugs on his jacket, buttoning it with marginally restrained flair. “You will sous-chef, of course?”

Will’s eyes sparkle with something dark and pleased.

“I’d be delighted.”

**Author's Note:**

> \-- _You want me to tell of the pain that is hidden in pleasure, the fang that’s concealed by the lip, that kiss that draws a blossom of blood, the joys that wrench the heart Godwards— paltry is the passion that never makes us shudder. True love partakes of terror._ — [Dante, _Paradiso,_ trans. Jacob Rabinowitz](https://dykenstein.tumblr.com/post/627378836068335616/you-want-me-to-tell-of-the-pain-that-is-hidden-in)
> 
> \-- _But this love of ours is immoderate, inordinate, and not to be comprehended in any bounds. It… is a wandering, extravagant, a domineering, a boundless, an irrefragable, a destructive passion._ — [Robert Burton, _The Anatomy of Melancholy_](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/10800/10800-h/10800-h.htm)
> 
> \-- _two lovers interminably devouring each other_ — [José Saramago, _Cain_](https://books.google.com/books?id=tK_qDwAAQBAJ)
> 
> Couldn't find the first one anywhere but tumblr, but I liked it so much that I didn't really bother with additional digging!
> 
> Thank you so much to [bonkobarnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonkobarnes), [resolutedecay](https://resolutedecay.tumblr.com/), and Andrew Rose for their invaluable support, encouragement, and beta work! Thanks also to FannibalFest for motivating me to actually write this!


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